Museum Core Chapter 89: Well, it was Technically Diplomacy?

Thomas eyed the report he’d just gotten with distaste, for multiple reasons.

For one, it acted as though the world were mere hours from entering World War three, though he doubted it since chances were that if that were the case, he’d have also heard it from sources other than the report itself.

Which left him with an explanation, and a second reason to be annoyed. This report was mostly, or even entirely, the result of a political, ludicrously high-stakes, game of Chinese Whispers that had wound up resulting in this mess.

Someone had gathered information, passed it along to somone else, then that person had tried to extrapolate the true state of the world from that, then sent that onwards until it had eventually reached whoever had put together the actual report meant for him, except that this “final product” had clearly been edited and rewritten in an attempt to make it more easily understandable for a being that lacked any of the context a human who’d grown up on Earth would have had.

That last part was especially obvious considering that Thomas did, in fact, have that context.

He’d have to bring that up with someone … yet at the same time, was that even a good idea, or was it going to bite him in the ass with near-absolute certainty?

Because, as truly fascinating as his powers as a Dungeon Core were, they did come with several severe drawbacks.

The first, obviously, was the fact that he didn’t really have a physical body anymore, just an inanimate “core” that fulfilled much the same function as a lich’s phylactery, keeping him alive but not really being able to do or feel much.

But the second was the fact that he was stuck here. While there were several tricks he could pull to see and/or affect the world beyond his dungeon, they were all indirect, and even if he were to treat the situation as though Jan really were his body, there were hard limits as to what a literal monkey could do. Plus the fact that the government had access to intelligence services that he obviously very much didn’t.

And reminding the British government, or any government, for that matter, of the fact that they did have power over him. They were very much capable of controlling the flow of information, and warning them off that might just point out just how much power they actually had.

At present, Thomas was the only source of magical gear in the world, and the best place to grind to boot.

He. Had. Power.

And he was making sure that he continued to demonstrate his power. Despite the fact that being generous was fun, and cost him functionally nothing since he was creating it purely from energy, he’d do his best to always get something in exchange for what he was offering, before it started being expected.

Because when it started to be expected, clawing back his “exhalted” status would be damn hard, especially since he didn’t want to tip over into “menace” in the process.

There was simply no way to completely put himself on the same level as everyone else, not safely. There was no single place, person, or natural phenomenon that could compete with a dungeon for sheer value over any even remotely extended period of time. And should he wind up becoming a “normal person” in their minds, either over time through his behavior or simply his true origins being revealed … well, then he wouldn’t be the enigmatic supernatural being that granted riches and danger in equal measure. He’d just be the guy in control of all the riches in the world. And then the dinner forks would well and truly come out.

As it was, at the very least, he was being treated with polite caution, which was fine. Though without Elias, he’d have likely gone insane by now.

So, the current state of the world … well, it was both a complete mess and far more orderly than he ever could have expected for the current situation.

The various superhumans being “uplifted” in the transformed zones were powerful and being looked at as potential weapons by many, but according to the report, the general assumption was that nuclear weaponry would be able to carry the day if things truly hit the fan. A costly response that would only be taken in the most extreme of circumstances … but in general, any nation that could take it likely felt secure in the belief that they could flip the board if it became necessary.

Though in Thomas’ mind, there was a 50/50 chance that “warning” was also directed at him. Well, the joke was on them, he had access to multiple creatures said to be able to life past a nuclear apocalypse and created powers based on them that he’d then passed onto certain other monsters designed to operate not only in nuclear wastelands, but also while the bombs were still falling as long as they didn’t explode right in their faces.

General issues of trying to fight outside his dungeon aside, he was fairly well set up against most of the modern world’s more extreme weapons.

Either way, the governments of this would be in for a rude awakening when people finally reached the point where “close” no longer counted, even when it was multi-kiloton warheads being lobbed around.

Things were tense, but, color commentary aside, didn’t seem to be nearing an actual explosion.

No, instead, this “war” seemed to be fought in laboratories and boardrooms, reading between the lines. People were trying to figure out how to spot individuals with the power of an entire army division locked in their body before said power was unleashed, as well as how to replicate that kind of strength without needing to hunt monsters in the transformed zones. Or even when the transformed zones had been hunted bare.

Spoiler alert, magic wouldn’t really help advance technology overly much. Or at all. At least when you weren’t using it.

So yes, superhumans were being stockpiled like any other weapon, but in general, the status quo was uncertain in a way that somehow prevented conflict rather than promoting it.

All that being said, Thomas was pretty sure that the primary reason why the world wasn’t currently drowning in blood was that there were so few transformation zones. If there were more, unsurveilable as they were, there’d likely be a whole lot of “oh, you lost your strongest warriors in a magic area, how sad, anyway, my nation would be willing to protect yours … for a price” kind of nonsense at the very least.

But that wasn’t how things were in the current situation. There were eight zones, and of those, only four were even remotely “usable.”

Two were literally random patches of seemingly empty ocean, the one in the Atlantic was under joint NATO control and no one had any idea what to do with it, and the one in the Pacific, blockaded by the Chinese, had started eating ships.

The desert island blocking off the Gulfstream was a pain in the ass to explore, as was the land of red sand in the Indian Ocean.

And the final oceanic area, the grove full of manatees Abrams would be heading into as soon as enough BPA members hit C-Rank, was still a pain in the ass to explore, even if it was paying some dividends.

Which just left the three land-based zones.

The Russians had a large chunk of Siberia that had been turned into crystal, but that was at the far end of a fairly long logistical pipeline and already being overhunted.

The United States had their “elemental” zone that was easier to get to but was also haunted by a perpetual snowstorm that, according to some sources, surrounded and was generated by that area’s anchor beast.

And the one in London was, well, tiny and utterly overhunted to boot … though that last part was a good ninety percent his fault.

His dungeon more than made for that, though, both in terms of supply and safety … but not available training space.

Things were weird at the moment, but while individuals were already surpassing some comic book superheroes, overall, the world as a whole was only slowly changing.

A truly glacial pace, to be entirely honest. Certainly, by the time the next wave of merges occurred, they almost certainly would not be ready … which only made it all the more important for him to finish that damn device.

For which he needed to level.

For which he needed delvers.

And in order to achieve that … he just needed to be patient.

***

Sooooo … this was new.

Normally, people showed up to the dungeon in one of a mere handful of vehicle types, all used by the BPA due to a combination of availability and not needing complex electronics to function.

Unless the visitors were some of a handful of extremely powerful people who could fly, or run through the jungle in minutes, while also being too tough to be in any kind of danger.

A man in a suit he’d never seen before, stumbling in from the treeline, escorted by a trio of larger, broad-shouldered guys who fit the shaved gorilla/supervillain henchman cliche to a t.

Someone who wanted to talk to him, but couldn’t do so through official channels. How scandalous …

There were actually still British guards around, but they always stayed in the only completed building outside when it got dark, and only left either at shift change or if he called on them for a problem he couldn’t handle on his own.

Their presence was something the newcomer clearly wasn’t aware of, and while no one showed up, Thomas was fairly certain they’d seen him. And even if they hadn’t, he’d already had a monkey snap a picture of the approaching foursome.

They didn’t look like a threat, they looked like they were here to negotiate … but he could be wrong. Powerhouses could look like anyone.

But when they stepped up to the main door and therefore entered his domain, it turned out that the presumed diplomat was unranked, and his bodyguards scattered throughout E-Rank. Nothing to sneeze at in the wider world … but very low to walk through a transformation zone.

“Good evening, Daedalus,” the diplomat, and Thomas was very certain that was what the man was, greeted. But that was not the most salient piece of information, no, that was the man’s accent.

It wasn’t too strong, certainly not the way “movie supervillain” bad, but it was still one the ones that were the most common amongst that ilk. Unless it was fake, that man was Russian, which already put his hackles up. There wasn’t any proof yet, but that nation remained the top contender for being responsible for the assassination attempt on him.

“Good evening, stranger,” Thomas replied via the raptor he kept near the door for just such a purpose. He wondered how long it would take for the man’s employers to be named. “And what brings you here at this hour?”

It was a little stilted, but it still felt okay.

“I’m here to extend a hand in friendship on behalf of my government. Unfortunately, there seems to have been a miscommunication with your hosts, otherwise, we’d have already introduced ourselves properly.”

So, hardly the worst opening. Polite, explained why it had taken this long, and took a subtle dig at Thomas’ presently strongest allies.

“Thank you,” he replied, sending the raptor out where it could be seen. “But I don’t think this is a discussion we should have across the threshold. Why don’t we talk somewhere more comfortable?”

To the diplomat’s credit, he didn’t hesitate to enter, and followed the raptor as it headed toward the cafe while Thomas heroically resisted the temptation to lead the group through some indirect path that would get that fancy suit seriously dirty.

And a few minutes later, they were sitting in the museum’s cafe, with his visitor firmly planted on a chair, the bodyguards roaming, and Thomas’ mouthpiece pacing on the table, pushing a piece of paper towards the man. It was one of the few treaties that had actually been made at his request that he’d also been allowed to replicate.

The diplomat began to read.

“If this is signed by anyone other than a head of state, this piece of paper will turn to ash, if it is signed falsely … what is this?”

“It’s assurance that I’m dealing with someone official,” Thomas said. “You can attach it to any document, so I can be sure that it was signed by someone with the needed authority. I mean, it’s not like I can watch it be signed right in front of me, can I? Also, signing guarantees that the signee has not tried to kill me, directly or indirectly. That is a very important trait in anyone trying to make a deal with me.”

The man stopped reading and passed it along to one of the bodyguards, seemingly having dismissed it. Thomas glowered at the man from his safe position in his core room.

“So, can you tell me who you represent?” he asked.

“Of course,” the diplomat dipped his head. “I’m Ambassador Danilovich, delegate of the Russian Federation.”

“Not the USSR?” Thomas asked.

Now, how would that guy respond? Would he correct the error? Would he assume that the British weren’t properly informing him about the world and try to take advantage of it in some way?

Thomas decided to give the man enough rope to hang himself with throughout the conversation, piece by piece.

“Well, that’s just semantics,” Danilovich shrugged. “Not correct, but people would know who you were talking about.”

Damnit, what was Thomas supposed to read into that? Although that was likely the exact point, it was a reply that didn’t outright say anything.

“Anyway, it’s nice to talk to someone from somewhere else,” Thomas said. “The British do tend to be more … uptight than other people.”

At least that was only the cliche, but once again, how the ambassador would reply should be telling. Well, could.

“That’s something they’re known for,” Denisovitch said.

Thomas groaned inwardly. Perhaps, just maybe, the career diplomat was better at this than he was …

“But how about we talk about why you’re here?” he tried to switch tracks.

“Like I said, I’m here to extend a hand in friendship. You’re the Earth’s most unique life form, and that should be celebrated,” the ambassador exclaimed, spreading his arms, the wide grin seemingly genuine despite the fact that it had appeared in a heartbeat.

And yet you haven’t brought me a single gift. Celebrated, my ass, he thought.

Really, it wasn’t like Thomas was hard to please; he didn’t need anything crazy or expensive, just interesting. Heck, any recognizably Russian uniform he could animate or put on a bear or something would have been perfect. Or just some information.

For a couple of seconds, Thomas tried to make his avatar blush before he realized that wouldn’t work as a matter of physiology. Yes, he was no longer taking this seriously, not really.

Denisovich was good, at least as far as he could judge, but between a lifetime of seeing Russia as the standard “villain” in any movie that wanted to paint a nation as the bad guy but was too good to use Nazis, the assassination attempt, and the fact that the ambassador was yet to actually say anything depite all the talking he’d done … Thomas didn’t trust the situation, and wouldn’t, not until that paper came back signed. And the fact that it had been so casually put away, without even the faintest promise like “it’ll get signed at some point before the heat death of the universe” … he didn’t like it.

“Thanks,” he finally wound up saying, still trying to decide what to follow it up with.

Should he completely blow the man off, get snippy, or just start throwing insults?

“Well, it needed to be said.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that you’re the first one to say it?”

And so on, and so forth. Lots of words, but very little actual meaning was being conveyed.

After a solid five minutes, Thomas’ well of patience finally dried up. Yes, he could have pressed harder, but the Russian was the one who’d wanted this meeting. The onus of carrying this conversation was on him.

“By the way, is it true that the more virtues a country’s name espouses, the less likely it is to possess any virtues?” he asked. “And how does that work for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?”

Denisovich gave him a flat look, which was still more polite than Thomas had expected. “What brought that on?”

Thomas’ raptor shrugged, a motion that could also be interpreted as clawing at the air, making the bodyguards shift uneasily.

“I like information. It’s useful.”

In actuality, he just liked learning stuff, he had a whole lot of almost entirely useless information locked away in his head. But he preferred his response the way he’d said it.

But would Denisovich make an actual offer, like promising to fill the supposed gaps in Thomas’ knowledge that should have become apparent over the course of the conversation?

“It’s lucky then that you find yourself in a museum, isn’t it?”

Or not …

Nothing said, nothing promised, nothing offered. Well, that had been a bust.

“Anyway, I was wondering, do your bodyguards have the same powers as the people who tried to kill me?” Thomas asked, keeping his tone conversational. “I mean, the crystal zone is in Russia, right? Or did you accidentally sell that too?”

Densiovitch gave him a highly convincing “what the hell did I do” look, but Thomas was pretty sure it was entirely fake.

After another menacing “shrug,” Thomas had the raptor spin around, nearly slapping the man with its tail.

Then, as it hopped away, he had it speak one last time.

“Don’t even bother coming back without a signed promise that you weren’t behind that, even in the most indirect of ways,” he said coldly.

If he’d been a little better at this song and dance, perhaps he could have gotten some actually useful information from this meeting, but as it stood, he’d figured out exactly two things:

1. The Russians were interested in making deals with him.

2. They’d had no idea how to properly do that.

Oh, and there was one more thing: He was damn lucky that the people he’d been dealing with so far had been emminently reasonable.

And now, he’d go tattle to those same people, see if he couldn’t convince them to do … something. Anything, as long as it was either funny, interesting, or beneficial. Preferably, they’d decide to start ramping up their efforts at growing in power and, in turn, boost him.

Hopefully.